Disillusioned: By an Ex-Enthusiast
OH, that my soul its gods could seeAs years ago they seemed to meWhen first I painted them;Invested with the circumstanceOf old conventional romance:Exploded theorem!
The bard who could, all men above,Inflame my soul with songs of love,And, with his verse, inspireThe craven soul who feared to dieWith all the glow of chivalryAnd old heroic fire;
I found him in a beerhouse tapAwaking from a gin-born nap,With pipe and sloven dress;Amusing chums, who fooled his bent,With muddy, maudlin sentiment,And tipsy foolishness!
The novelist, whose painting penTo legions of fictitious menA real existence lends,Brain-people whom we rarely fail,Whene’er we hear their names, to hailAs old and welcome friends;
I found in clumsy snuffy suit,In seedy glove, and blucher boot,Uncomfortably big.Particularly commonplace,With vulgar, coarse, stockbroking face,And spectacles and wig.
My favourite actor who, at will,With mimic woe my eyes could fillWith unaccustomed brine:A being who appeared to me(Before I knew him well) to beA song incarnadine;
I found a coarse unpleasant manWith speckled chin—unhealthy, wan—Of self-importance full:Existing in an atmosphereThat reeked of gin and pipes and beer—Conceited, fractious, dull.
The warrior whose ennobled nameIs woven with his country’s fame,Triumphant over all,I found weak, palsied, bloated, blear;His province seemed to be, to leerAt bonnets in Pall Mall.
Would that ye always shone, who write,Bathed in your own innate limelight,And ye who battles wage,Or that in darkness I had diedBefore my soul had ever sighedTo see you off the stage!